


Cuffed

by laurenagarret (CrimsonWild)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hand-Cuffed to the Bed, Hotel Sex, M/M, PWP, Pre-Slash to Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 02:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonWild/pseuds/laurenagarret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wasn’t sure what to make of the situation but there was Sherlock – naked and handcuffed to the bed… Suddenly the situation didn’t seem to matter so much anymore</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cuffed

**Author's Note:**

> *whistles tunelessly* 
> 
> So I found this gif and a little thought popped into my head… what if during a case Sherlock got himself caught in the same kind of situation and John was the one to find him. I want it known that this is my first attempt at m/m slash PWP; let alone writing something of this nature using John and Sherlock. I figure it’ll get me into a good rhythm when I come to that part of From the Shadows 
> 
> I would also like it known that the great majority of this was written while I was sick with a chest infection and dosed on antibiotics, panadol, a puffer designed for people with asthma and Coca-Cola. Not an altogether bad combination but I would like to have some kind of excuse should people comment on how weird this turned out to be. 
> 
> As always suggestions and criticism always welcome, flames aren't. I know that there are some narrow minded people out there, but it's my fic so anything I say, goes.

It was not the first time John had been left behind at a crime scene or Bakers Street or even some random café. It happened so often that it had kind of become routine when Sherlock was involved in a case – a sad routine but a routine none-the-less.

But this was the first time Sherlock had ever called him. That in itself was strange as the world’s only consulting detective hated calling people and preferred to text them instead. The call had been brief, to the point and it had seemed as if Sherlock was in some way a great distance from his phone. Another strange item to add to the ever growing list of strangeness.

He hadn’t bothered calling Lestrade; knowing Sherlock he was in the middle of some sort of plan that involved barely legal tactics and the doctor didn’t want to drag the Detective Inspector into a potentially illegal mess. It was best if John waited to see what kind of mess Sherlock had gotten himself into. If karma had decided to be nice than hopefully John wouldn’t have to make a call to Lestrade but knowing their recent string of luck karma had no intentions of turning this situation into anything light and fluffy.

As the cabbie pulled up, John stared out of the window and up at the hotel. Very well to do. The kind that only the rich and even richer could afford and those bringing in normal wages would have to save the whole of their life just to spend a night. So of course this was where Sherlock would get himself into trouble.

For a few short seconds he considered texting Sherlock and telling him that he wasn’t able to come and help; than he could tell the cabbie to turn around and head back to Baker’s Street, make a nice cup of tea and watch TV until Sherlock managed to arrive home, grumpy because he hadn’t come to help.

They would then spend the next couple of days in relative silence. Sherlock refusing to talk to John and John just going about his usual routine in silence. Eventually the detective would have enough and ask John to make him a cup of tea and everything would be forgiven until the next incident which resulted in the silent treatment.  

Then the dark clouds formed around the idea: that would only work if Sherlock hadn’t managed to get himself into a potentionally deadly situation, which was a completely probable possibility, in which case if John decided to go back to Bakers Street and make his cup of tea it was possible that Sherlock might not even get back to Baker’s Street.

The thought made the breath catch in his chest and his heart gave a couple of shuddering thuds.

No matter how much trouble Sherlock caused him John knew that he wasn’t able to tell the cabbie to turn around and go back to Baker’s street. Nearly six months of separation after what they now called _the Fall_ had resulted in both men unable to think of life without the other. It had never been talked about but it had become an unspoken conversation that both had agreed on. They cared about each other.

It didn’t stop Sherlock from getting them into potentially deadly situations but it had caused the detective to think through his plans, at least for a couple of seconds before setting them into motion.

Paying the cabbie, John stepped out onto the street, pushed his way through the crowds walking past the hotel and strode into the hotel’s entrance hall.

Instantly he felt under dressed and inadequately clothed: not because he had strutted into the hotel in nothing but board shorts and a t-shirt (he was actually wearing jeans, woollen jumper and jacket) but his clothes seemed to be very low rent compared to how all the patrons were all attired. John could picture Sherlock striding into the hotel, dressed in his long jacket, suit and purple shirt, blending in with the regular clientele until he reached the elevator and taking it up the relevant floor.

He quickly pushed the feeling aside. He was used to feeling slightly inadequate next to Sherlock. Who wouldn’t? It would take a very brave man or woman to stand beside Sherlock and believe that they were above him on any level – intellectual or physical.

Without even looking over at the service desk, John strode towards the elevator and pressed the up button before checking the palm of his hand. Written in his terrible handwriting were the words: _Level 39, Room 221_. Sherlock hadn’t given any other information other than the name of the hotel and to come quickly.

Out of the corner of his eye John saw a pretentious man looking in his direction, dressed in a Hotel Uniform and looking much more arrogant than his job title should have allowed. He said something to the woman standing next to him, who didn’t seem to comment or react at all ( _probably used to his snide comments,_ John thought), before making his way around the desk and heading towards John.

The doors opened with a monotonous ding, the same tone that he had heard hundreds of times before when using an elevator. He stepped in but just as the doors were about the close the pompous prick stopped the doors and caused them to open fully once more. ‘Excuse me sir, but I don’t believe that you have checked in.’

John was tempted to tell him to fuck off and push him out of the way so the doors could close, but the manners that his mother had worked had to in still in his mind pushed their way to the forefront of his mind. John gave the politest smile that he could manage. ‘That’s because I don’t have a room-’

It was almost like Christmas had come early for the man in front of him. While the same almost polite look stayed on his face, his eyes danced with happiness at the thought of throwing John out of the hotel in front of very important people. John could almost see the scenario involving a promotion for great observation playing out in front of him. The look instantly disappeared as John continued.

‘-I’m here to meet with a friend and I’m about to be late. Excuse me.’

With a gentle push, John moved him out of the way and watched the happiness disappear from the man’s eyes as the door closed. John didn’t even feel the slightest bit guilty at the smile that graced his face once the door closed. Served him right the pretentious prick.

When the doors opened again, the smile had disappeared and had been replaced with one of apprehension. The incident with the employee had succeeded in taking his mind of what was happening to Sherlock but the moment the doors opened the reason why he was in the hotel in the first place hit him full force and he was once again wondering what unbelievable situation Sherlock had gotten himself into.

The room wasn’t hard to find, granted he had to turn around once he realised that he was going the wrong way, but once he was striding in the right direction he found the room in no time. He tested the door knob, it twisted and the door opened a crack. John took a deep breath, exhaled and opened the door fully.

The room seemed empty, at least from where he was standing in the doorway. For a second John thought that maybe he got the room number wrong and he was tempted to call Sherlock. Then he heard the sound of metal grating against metal and harsh breathing.

Tentatively John called out. ‘Sherlock?’

The reply was soft, not in an _I’m injured_ way but in an _I’m a little bit of a distance from you_ way. ‘John? I’m in here.’

Stepped further into the room, he came to a sudden halt three steps in. His eyes had gazed all around the room, searching for his friend and flatmate until they landed on the bed, and the man lying on the bed. Naked and cuffed to the headboard. The only thing covering his more _private_ area was a well-placed pillow that looked like it had been placed on the detective as a last resort.

He didn’t move. All John could do was stand there, three steps into the room and stare at the naked man on the bed.

Sherlock’s head lifted from the pillows and he gave John a short smile. ‘Finally! I didn’t think that you were ever going to come. Are you alone? I really don’t want to give Anderson or Donovan any ammunition or prime time to start taking happy snaps.’

‘I’m alone,’ John said, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. Then, almost like he had suddenly gotten control of his limbs and mind, he turned and closed the door. As much as Sherlock didn’t care what people thought about him John doubted that he would have appreciated it if a maid walked in as John was helping him out of the hand cuffs.

Once the door closed with a noticeable click, he marched across the room until he was standing at the end of the bed and asked the only question that had been dancing through his mind: ‘How the hell did this happen?’

‘Long story,’ Sherlock replied. ‘Un-cuff me.’

John walked around to the side and climbed on until his knees were touching Sherlock’s side. ’We’ve got time. I don’t have the key so I’m going to have to pick the lock.’

Sherlock gave a long suffering sigh. ‘I was meeting up with an informant. Unbeknown to me said informant had no intention of handing over their information and instead thought it would be better if they drugged me, cuffed me and got away while I was still unconscious.’

‘And the stripping you naked part was just for fun?’

‘How would I know? I was unconscious at the time this all happened,’ Sherlock replied, moving his cuffed hands into little circles in a gesture to his state of undress.

‘Must have been some good stuff then,’ John muttered, glancing down at Sherlock’s bare chest. John only got a grunt in reply.

As John fiddled with the tiny lock his mind kept wandering to the man lying beside him. The very _naked_ man beside him. He looked down at Sherlock, his eyes taking in every detail, every slight flaw.

Dark curls fell over a smooth forehead and into two very light blue eyes. His breathing was shallow, almost non-existent and John wondered if that was some kind of trick or if that was just how Sherlock normally breathed. He wasn’t as thin as he had been when he had first returned anymore.

In those first few weeks of Sherlock’s return John didn’t know what to make of his flatmate. He had lost so much weight that it almost seemed as if a bad cold would knock the detective in the next world for real. For weeks John made sure that Sherlock at three times a day until he could no longer count the man’s ribs through his shirt.

Fingers were curling and uncurling in a bored fashion, long enough to graze along John’s hand where he held the cuffs. His head was resting on a pillow and positioned just right that John could see his pulse thumping along his neck. If he concentrated hard he could count the beats. Pale flesh was stretched out in a relaxed way, almost like Sherlock had positioned himself for a lover.

For a second John thought that maybe Sherlock had come here to meet Irene Adler. The idea disappeared as soon as it appeared. Irene Adler was dead. Mycroft had told him so and he hadn’t found any reason to doubt what the elder Homes brother had told him regarding Ms Adler.

‘What is wrong?’ Sherlock asked. For a second John didn’t know what Sherlock was talking about and then he realised that he had stopped working on the cuffs in favour of staring at the man beside him.

The incredibly beautiful and laid out man beside him.

John knew that he cared for Sherlock and that the feeling was returned. After all why would he fake his death to protect John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade if he didn’t harbor some kind of feeling towards the three of them?

But since his return John had felt like a bundle of emotions when it came to Sherlock. He became worried when the man went out during the night and didn’t return until lunchtime the next day. He got angry when Donovan or Anderson threw some spiteful remark at Sherlock before he had even provoked them. He got butterflies in his tummy when Sherlock smiled and they got worse whenever Sherlock would watch him at his computer or making tea.

The constant observation by Sherlock was a new feature and for weeks John had been feeling like an experiment or a corpse as Sherlock surveyed every movement he made. After three weeks he managed to catch a glimpse of emotion on his friend’s face. It was only for a second but John caught it. Indecision. Almost like he was unsure how to behave around John during those down hours, but it would always be forgotten once an interesting case over a seven caught Sherlock’s attention.

John knew what everything he had been feeling meant, he had felt it a number of times in his life, but he refused to admit it to himself. Admitting it meant that he was suddenly classing Sherlock as something _other_ than a friend and by doing so he was setting himself up for rejection.

‘John?’ Sherlock’s deep, baritone voice dragged John out of his thoughts and he realised that he had let go of the cuff completely and was sitting there, on his knees, staring at Sherlock.

And Sherlock had caught him. John could feel his face heat up and was sure that the tell-tale blush was covering his cheeks. Instantly, John grabbed the cuff and started to work on the cuff once more.

* * *

As John worked, Sherlock observed. He had caught himself doing it a lot lately. John watching (as he called it) had become his new pastime and he only now was beginning to understand why. John was fascinating.

One minute the shorter man could be calm and caring the next he could be angry and protective. Then there was the way he moved, all military and sharp compared to Sherlock’s own graceful movements. There was something about John that made Sherlock care about him. It had come as a surprise when they were on the _Hound of Baskerville_ case but it became much more prominent during their separation.

Sherlock had known that he needed to dismantle Moriarty’s web, to protect those he cared for. But the closer Sherlock had come to completion, the closer he had come to going back to John, the more extreme his emotions became and the harder his heartbeat. Sherlock put it down to excitement until he got back to Baker’s Street. His stomach flipped whenever he saw the doctor and clenched when he left to go to work. This new physiological reaction to John’s everyday movements confused him, having never felt anything like it before.

Now as Sherlock watched John work on the cuff he wondered if John had the same kind of reactions. If the sight of him leaving the flat made his heart clench and beat faster upon his return. He wondered what it would be like to those lips, to feel that pink tongue that was just now peeking out run along his own tongue. What it would be like to completely and fully consume this man, right now, on this bed.

Than as if someone had heard his thoughts, the cuff opened and Sherlock made his decision. He gave his wrist a couple of quick twirls to get to blood moving again, than he placed his hand on the back of John’s neck.

John looked at Sherlock questioningly, unsure what the man was doing. He almost sounded breathless when he spoke. ‘Sherlock?’

Once the sound of John’s breathless voice hit his ears, Sherlock made his move. He pulled the blonde close and pressed their lips together. At first it was chaste, like two five year olds completing a dare, lips pressed together but unmoving; then Sherlock ran his tongue along Johns bottom lip. The action both shocked and aroused the shorter man and he opened his mouth in a gasp. Almost like a switch had been turned on, John pulled away and looked at the darker haired man.

‘W-what?’

Sherlock surveyed him. ‘I thought that it was obvious.’

John stared at him flabbergasted. Sherlock had just kissed him. Him. In the two-and-a-half years of knowing this incredibly amazing man John had never seen him interested in anyone. There was the instance with Irene Adler but John was still trying to work out if that was love or if he was just intrigued by her because she was able to play him almost as well as Sherlock was able to play the violin.

Never in his wildest dreams (and recently they had become very wild and very _sexy_ ) did John believe that this would happen. He had prepared himself for the fact the Sherlock would never see him like this, as something more than a friend and flatmate; but here he was, sitting next to his complete naked flatmate who only had a pillow to cover his modesty, and said flatmate had kissed him.

Was he dreaming? Was he in the middle of some bizarre dream and Sherlock was going to yell out for tea at any minute and wake him?

‘Apparently not,’ Sherlock muttered dragging John once more out of his thoughts.

Then everything hit him. Sherlock was cuffed to the bed. Cuffed and naked. Then any other thoughts disappeared and an almost chant whirled around his brain. _Cuffed and naked. Cuffed and Naked. Cuffed AND Naked._

Without thinking John cupped Sherlock’s face, shocking the detective with his sudden movement.

‘John?’ Sherlock said hesitantly and was shushed as John ran his thumb along Sherlock’s bottom lip. Then painstakingly slowly John leant in until their foreheads were touching. Sherlock let out a shuddering breath. ‘What?’

‘I thought that was obvious,’ John replied and ran his tongue along Sherlock’s top lip.

Sherlock didn’t know what to make of John’s sudden change in character. It wasn’t as if John had never been forceful in front of him before in fact if memory served him correct – and it usually always did – John was usually forceful with Sherlock when it regarded something important like eating or Sherlock’s safety. But this show of forcefulness was different. He had gone from timid and unsure to in control in a matter of seconds and Sherlock – amazingly - liked it.

It was a side of John that Sherlock had never thought had been hidden beneath those cuddly jumpers and while Sherlock’s mind told him to take control of the situation, Sherlock couldn’t. The thought of John being in control caused a tightening in his abdomen and any movement caused his growing erection to shift against the smooth material of the pillow cover.

John’s lips hovered over Sherlock’s, the breath coming out on shallow puffs. John stayed there for seconds that felt like hours; giving Sherlock time to say no, but no declaration came and John lowered his lead. The kiss was brief, merely a brushing of lips to test the waters before he swooped in again and this time added more pressure.

John kissed Sherlock as if he was a man dying of thirst and Sherlock was the only source of water around. He kissed, sucked, licked and nibbled those lips that he had fantasised about until the sensations became too much for the detective beneath him and his lips parted. It gave John the perfect opportunity and he slid tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, running it along Sherlock’s own.

The sensation was new and not as unpleasant at Sherlock believed that it would be. As John explored his mouth, Sherlock started to do his own exploration. His tongue wasn’t used to performing these kinds of feats so he allowed John to take the lead, learning from the shorter man how to make him moan.

After one particularly instinct driven movement involving swirling and sucking, John let out a loud moan and pulled away from Sherlock panting. His blue eyes darker than Sherlock had ever seen them before. Almost like a magnet, John was pulled back towards Sherlock, only this time his target wasn’t those red, kiss bruised lips; it was his neck, more importantly the area above his jugular where John had earlier been able to count Sherlock’s heartbeat.

He gave a solid lick, the pulse thumping beneath his tongue. He didn’t bring his head away once he had finished, just hovered there as his mind catalogued the taste. Salty and something that John wasn’t able to name and could only put down to being uniquely Sherlock. The next movement of his tongue went right up the side of his neck, following the artery as if it was a road before coming to a stop and going back in reverse to stop at the nape of his neck, where flesh dipped slightly before curving over Sherlock’s collarbone. A feature that looked delicious in Johns mind. His lips touched the expanse of flesh hardened by bone giving it a light kiss before sucking and intermittently nipping.

The hand that John had subconsciously placed on Sherlock’s sternum could feel the moan before he heard it, the sound vibrating in his chest before making its way up Sherlock’s throat and past his parted lips. ‘ _John_ ’

Hearing his name spoken by those lips caused a spark of pleasure run right through John’s body until it was swirling and twirling around John’s abdomen. As he heard the sound of metal scraping against metal above him, John started to feel his growing erection pressing against the thin material of his underwear and rubbing against the zipper of his jeans; the friction not helping the situation and John gave a particularly hard nip to Sherlock’s collarbone.

A hiss through teeth came from above him, than John became remarkably aware of _two_ hands slipping underneath John’s jumper and fingers running across his stomach.

While john had been distracted by Sherlock’s neck and other parts of his body, Sherlock had groped around for what John had used to pick the lock of the first handcuff. The freeing of his second hand had been a relatively easy job, lengthened only because of John’s extensive attention to his clavicle; but now his hands were free and itching to feel.

Sherlock’s long fingers grazed the side of his chest, running up his ribs, thumbs circling his nipples and causing John to stop sucking. Sherlock’s eyes locked with Johns and his mouth turned up in a smirk, then his thumbs circled John’s nipples again causing John to repeat the noise that he had made the first time: a mixture between moaning Sherlock’s name and some kind of primal grunt.

Sherlock pulled himself into a sitting position, undisturbed when the pillow that had been covering him was dislodged. It didn’t matter; he had a feeling that it would have been moved sooner or later anyway. He withdrew his hands from John’s jumper, slid them over top until one was resting on John’s shoulder and the other had cupped the back of the doctor’s head. ‘I believe, Doctor Watson, that you are entirely too over dressed for the present situation.’

John let out a short laugh. Trust Sherlock to sound as if the whole situation hadn’t affected him. He didn’t dwell on it because less than a second later Sherlock had pulled John in for another kiss, while using his other hand to push the doctor’s jacket off his shoulders.

This time Sherlock was in control. Using what he had learnt during their last kiss and what John had done to his clavicle the detective nipped, sucked, swirled and stroked his way around John’s mouth as the two of them worked on removing John’s clothes. The only time the two parted was to pull John’s jumper over his head, allowing the two men to catch their breath for a few seconds before being drawn together once more.

Hands explored torsos, each of them learning the spots to touch, stroke, pinch, run nails down to evoke some kind of reaction. John felt it before he saw Sherlock’s fingers working on his jeans and he roughly pulled away as Sherlock pulled the zipper down.

He knew that Sherlock wasn’t all that experienced in the bedroom, he had gathered the information when they had been at Buckingham Palace, and the man hadn’t shown any signs that he was interested in any of it. Yet John could feel how entirely interested Sherlock was in the acts that they were currently performing but it still made him pause. Did Sherlock really want this? Did he want to go there? Was he just following Johns lead? Or was it just a spur of the moment thing where Sherlock could experiment and find out what all the fuss was about? What would happen to them afterwards?

These questions plus many more flashed behind John’s eyes and Sherlock could make out every one of them. He lent down and gave what could only be described as a very chaste kiss compared to the others that the two had shared before bringing a hand up and cupping John’s face. Eyes locked, Sherlock climbed onto his knees and said the only thing that he could think of that would answer John’s questions and the ones that had been plaguing him for months.

‘I love you and I have no intention of letting you go.’

John searched Sherlock’s eyes, looking for anything that might signal that it was all a trick but he saw nothing. Seeing that his friend ( _lover?_ ) was in need of reassurance, Sherlock leant down and kissed John again, this time pushing everything he felt towards the man in his arms into the kiss in the hope that John got the message.

Feeling John move minutes later, Sherlock was unsure if John was preparing to push him away or not. Then he heard the zipper on John’s pants slide the rest of the way down and felt John do a little shimmy. He only just saw John throwing the garments off the bed but the sight was driven from his mind by John’s next movement.

John’s skilled hands, hands that had helped save lives in Afghanistan gripped Sherlock’s hips and pulled them together. Flesh on flesh, chest on chest, thighs on thighs they touched. The feeling of John’s erection rubbing against his own caused Sherlock to pull out of the kiss and let out a hiss at the friction. The glorious, pleasurable friction.

John placed a kiss to his shoulder, allowing the same feelings that Sherlock was feeling run through his body. When Sherlock got a hold of himself, he looked down at John and a curious look appeared in his eye. John didn’t have time to think what the look meant before Sherlock ground his hips against Johns, rubbing their erections together once more. Seeing a tremble run through the shorter man’s body Sherlock repeated the motion, this time adding more pressure.

The simple experiment caused John’s head fell back, exposing his neck to Sherlock who latched on and sucked on his jugular. It was a strange combination of feelings – Sherlock rotating his hips and sucking on his neck – but it was causing reactions in John’s body that he had never felt before. Seeing his opportunity, Sherlock pushed John back on the bed refusing to stop the body on body contact that he had started.

Coils were building up in John’s stomach and it wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to last with the grinding and the sucking and the – _god! –_ now Sherlock’s hands playing with his nipples. Then everything slowed until it came to a stop and John opened his eyes to see a full grin on the man above him. He’d apparently vocalised his thoughts. John couldn’t be mad; instead he pulled Sherlock down, nibbling on his bottom lip as his hand run down Sherlock’s arm and grabbed his wrist. A confused look appeared on Sherlock’s face when John pulled away until John slipped a finger into his mouth and began to suck.

Whatever train of thought Sherlock had been on completely disappeared from his mind as he watched John suck on his fingers and felt John’s tongue swirl around. Images invaded the empty space and he wondered what John would look like with his lips surrounding his cock instead of his fingers.

The mental image caused the coils that he had so far managed to ignore to tighten and Sherlock decided then and there that he needed John and he needed him _now._

Knowing that his fingers were slick enough with saliva, Sherlock got John to release them by running his free hand across a spot that he had found earlier. He then brought his slickened flingers down between John’s legs and further back until he found the entrance that he was looking for.

He watched John’s face as he circled the area before pushing a finger in then out and back in again. John’s breathing deepened as Sherlock added fingers and he almost stopped breathing all together when Sherlock found his prostate.

‘G-g-god Sherlock! Now! I’m ready now!’

Sherlock wasn’t sure. Everything that he could see so far was telling him that he needed a couple more minutes so everything would be painless for John, but with every breathless _Sherlock_ John let pass his lips his cock twitched until Sherlock didn’t care about anything except pushing into him.

He made sure his cock was well lubricated with his on saliva before circling the entrance. John had pushed himself up enough that he could watch and when Sherlock was sure that John had his full attention he pushed in.

It was slow. He didn’t stop, but his eyes never left John’s face and at the slightest sign of pain he slowed even more but he couldn’t stop completely. The feeling of John surrounded him spurred him on until he was balls deep, then he stopped.

The sight before Sherlock was breath taking. John lay on his back, legs spread and chest heaving as he allowed his body to adjust to the feeling of Sherlock’s cock being in him. He couldn’t help himself and leant forward, bringing John into a kiss and taking his mind off the feeling. It seemed to be working and after a few minutes John had relaxed enough that he no longer looked uncomfortable. Placing their foreheads together, John let out a few deep breaths. ‘Move, Love, move.’

And move Sherlock did.

He started slow, building up a rhythm that pleasured both him and John. Then the coils tightened and the need grew. Thrusts came faster, harder and longer. Moans filled the room, some Johns (‘ _God! Sherlock! Harder! Faster!)_ and some Sherlock’s ( _John, so tight, so perfect_ ).

Skin slapped against skin in a musical rhythm that only the two of them could play. John’s fingers wrapped around the bars in the headboard and for a brief second Sherlock wondered what the man below him would look like cuffed to the bed. The thought made him thrust harder.

With every thrust the coils got tighter and tighter until Sherlock looked down at the wanton man below him, moaning and jerking himself off in time with Sherlock’s movements. It was enough to send him (and John) over the edge.

They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, breathing heavily. Minutes passed and Sherlock came into post orgasm awareness because of John’s fingers running through his hair. Repositioning himself and pulling out of John, Sherlock placed his head on John’s sternum, looking up at his now lover waiting for him to come down from his orgasmic high and realise what had happened. Whatever reaction Sherlock had been waiting for it wasn’t the one that he got.

John looked down at Sherlock with a dopey smile brought about by great sex and ran his fingers continually through Sherlock’s hair. ‘I don’t think I said it earlier but I love you too.’

Sherlock didn’t say anything just kissed the flash below him; happy and content to lay with John, naked, for however long the other man wanted to.

He didn’t bother mentioning to John that it had been Anthea he had come to see regarding a case from Mycroft, but Sherlock did make a mental note to get her a damn good _thank-you_ gift for the unauthorised stunt she pulled.


End file.
